The Garrideb Conclusion
by gaffer42
Summary: It was as much a surprise to Holmes that he uttered those words, as it was to Watson.


_I originally started out to re-do the first fic I ever wrote till I realized that I REALLY wasn't all that good back then. I remember the emotions that this story stirred in me, though. This was also written for McKay'Snark, a new writer - this is what I was talking about ;), working to change my style from the SGA fic. Hope I succeeded._

**"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"**

**It was worth a wound -- it was worth many wounds -- to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.**

**(The Three Garridebs, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, first published in Colliers, 1924, then the Strand in 1925)**

The wound was not serious, and took little more than a cleaning, a bit of gauze and a bandage to tend to, but Holmes insisted I have it examined by the surgeon on duty. I was slightly put out, reminding him with some asperity that bullet wounds were the purview of, say, an army surgeon, and made pointed allusion to my history before joining him at Baker Street. His mood was black, though, and he simply declined to hear. Given the alarm we had both suffered by my unexpected bloodletting, I decided to permit him whatever appeared to give him comfort.

I found myself still slightly stunned by the whole evening. I have stood by Holmes' side in many more adventures than have been told, and I have served my part to bring justice into our small part of the world. I had understood our friendship to be based on my ability to reflect his genius back, to see what was needed from a practical point of view and to do it, to be a strong right arm when needed, and not the least to be his biographer - for he had a streak of pride that ran deep.

But for the clear window that had briefly opened into my friend's soul I would not have known that the deep loyalty and tremendous affection I had for him was returned, and that right well.

It was worth the wound, I mused again. The trap bounced, approaching the turn for Baker Street and home. 'Not deep' and 'not serious' did not necessarily follow with 'not painful', and I must have winced, for a long hand was laid upon my arm and grey eyes examined my face anxiously.

I ignored the twinge, merely smiled calmly, and he sat back reluctantly.

oOo

Mrs. Hudson had tut-tutted, but had been our landlady for too long to be subject to a case of the vapours - she scolded Holmes briefly but stopped when he turned an expression of misery to her - mind, had she not known both of us for so long she might not have recognized it for what it was. In the space of a sentence she had turned the scolding into such sympathy as he would accept, by sending us up stairs, promising a late - or perhaps very early - tea of high quality.

The stairs presented a small difficulty, the wound being in the left leg and my weak one being the right. I mused on the impossibility of limping on both legs as Holmes supported me slowly up. I gave the second flight of steps a glance of exasperation, which he must have seen for he informed me in no uncertain terms I was to stay on this level, and in his room. I decided not to argue for the moment. I was becoming rather concerned with his reactions.

He settled me in my chair and vanished briefly, I heard him climb the stairs to my room and sighed, sliding down a bit and massaging the old wound. He had placed an ottoman for my feet, and I kicked off my shoes and stretched both legs out in front of me. With the assorted aches, it promised to be a moderately unquiet night.

I had leaned my head back, and must have dozed off briefly in the wake of reaction to the stress of the evening. When I woke, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, I was covered snugly with a blanket, and my slippers were by the chair, warming next to the fire. Holmes had changed and was wandering the room in his robe, aimlessly moving the occasional item hither and yon. A teapot steamed on the table, ringed round with cups, untouched sandwiches and biscuits and slices of cake, more than two could easily eat.

Holmes seemed not to have noticed my wakening. He paused by a bookcase and lifted a small volume, leafing through it.

"You have mastered the art of reading upside down, I perceive," I said dryly. He started - started! - and put the book back, crossing to me in a few quick steps.

"Watson. How are you feeling, old chap?" He crouched by my chair, and I was alarmed at his pallor.

"Holmes, please sit down!" Evidently there was something seriously amiss, and I began to wonder. "You are flitting about like a particularly alarmed hummingbird. What has you so disquieted?"

He cast a withering eye upon me, and turned to the table, pouring two cups and filling two plates. He handed me a cup and saucer, putting the plate on my small table, then took his seat.

In silence we supped and drank, though he did little more than nibble, and his eyes moved often to me, then away. Twice he seemed to wish to speak, and twice he held his tongue, until finally I finished and set my plates aside. I pulled my feet from the ottoman, at which he moved as if to caution me; I slid my slippers on and stood carefully, and he was at my side in an instant to steady me.

"Holmes," I spoke gently, for standing close to me I could tell he was shivering, "my dear chap, what has you so fearful?"

"Cautious, perhaps, not fearful," and he attempted to put on his usual dry demeanor as a child puts on a mask. "Your leg is doubtless paining you - I would deduce both of them, right now. I merely thought to assist you to the couch."

I looked at him in the firelight, and suddenly it came clear. In my defense, I could only say I was not myself; though the wound was minor it was a bullet wound and had come in the context of some tension and alarm; still, I should have noticed before. Diaphoresis, chills - he was sweating, his face was ashen, he was shivering with cold.

"Holmes, sit down! You are in shock!"

He shook his head slightly, but I was insistent. As I badgered him into his chair, made certain his gown was wrapped about him and resumed my seat, I reflected that the negative side of strict emotional control could well be an over-reaction once that control was broken. Emotional shock could well have the attributes of physical, though at least I would not be concerned with dealing with the worst aspects of a wound. I could tell he was still fighting for mastery. Very well. I could assist with that.

"I must say, old chap, I was very glad to be with you this evening," I said, in a deliberately conversational tone. "I would not have cared to discover, tomorrow, that Killer Evans and his counterfeiting scheme had gone free, and possibly over your body. I must say that is one nightmare I can live without."

His shivers were slowing, but the grey eyes that stared from under beetled brows were haunted.

"It's remarkable how lucky we have been, don't you say?" I continued. "In all our years, only one pinking and that due to my tardiness. I should have read in his body that he would not go easily."

Holmes shook his head. "It's my fault, Watson," he said, not quite steadily. "I have seen his sort before, they fight to the end…"

"As have I, Holmes," and I permitted a touch of sharpness to my tone. "If there was a fault in this, it was mine. In the war, I saw many such as him, and I know that even if an insect like that seems cowed, it still has a sting and will use it."

He looked at me again, but I could tell he was recovering himself.

"My dear chap," I leaned forward carefully, and would have gone to him did I not realize my limping step would not calm him, "do not think me a wisp, a shrinking violet unused to hardship and injury. Recall my physical condition when I first joined you here. It is the work we do that has seen me through loss of brother…" for a moment his face swam and in my mind, I was sitting here a day after my return from Reichenbach, crying for the second time in my life "and wife…"and this time I was in the large, cold house after my Mary had passed away, marking the third time.

I found myself unable to continue for a moment, swallowing hard and looking into the fire. I sensed that Holmes was doing the same. Once I was again composed, I looked up and found his gaze on me again, but this time it was calmer and plainly affectionate.

"Never think you are only my Boswell, Watson. In the three years we were - separated - I found myself wishing for your counsel and companionship on many occasions. I do apologize, old boy, but I had not anticipated Killer's action and I will not soon forget that moment of dread. I felt such anger against him, Watson," his voice shook slightly "such a deep rage, and fear…I could scarce breathe. Twice that was the relief when I saw you were not killed," and he sat back, inhaling deeply, as a swimmer broaching the surface. "I am not used to strong emotion of this sort, my friend. I find I react…badly."

His gaze was slightly quizzical, slightly surprised - as if he had not meant to speak with such clarity, such vehemence. I met the now-steady grey eyes, the tension in them was reduced and he sat with more ease, not huddled against what I now realized was a fear we shared, one that we shouldered willingly each time we ventured forth on our adventures.

I had lost him once, and Mary had held me against that sorrow - I had lost Mary and had no one to look to in my grief. I still had that fear but it held little sway over me now. If nothing else, my life and experience had taught me that much.

My dear, mercurial friend, though, I feared for him. Genius and madness walked side by side, it took little to topple to the wrong. In a way I blessed the wound I had taken, the honesty I saw in our friendship now took on more substance, and I held the knowledge of my friend's affection to me.

"Perhaps now you understand my testiness when you take yourself off to the nether depths of the London underworld, old son," I commented wryly. "Do not think for an instant your emotions are not reciprocated, and I've already had to endure one memorial for you."

I pretended not to notice his warm smile as I stretched my legs again, and thinned my lips as they responded in their own sharp and dull aches.

"It couldn't have been my bad leg…" I sighed, head back. "No consideration, these villans."

"True," Holmes joined in my foolishness. "He could have hit you in the shoulder, perhaps - one needn't walk on that."

"Or missed me entirely," I grinned. "Next time, if you could remember to make that suggestion, I'd be very appreciative."

"Of course, my dear Watson. I'll have it on the tip of my tongue for the very next rogue we encounter."

His tone was back to normal and I sighed to myself, relieved. Another cup of tea was my prescription for us both, and a deep sleep - for me, perhaps on the very comfortable settee in front of the fire. And quiet tomorrow, and the day after? My friend and I had work to do.


End file.
